


Besides, maybe this time is different

by heavenisalibrary



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenisalibrary/pseuds/heavenisalibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We could do this, you know,” he says, even though he knows they couldn’t.</p><p>“Do what?” River asks, turning over so that she’s practically on top of him and giving a little wiggle that makes him go a bit cross-eyed, though he quickly grips her hips to stop her.</p><p>“Live in a house,” he says, perhaps a little too quickly to bely his uneasiness. “Order pizzas. Take naps. Read newspapers. Do… couple things.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Besides, maybe this time is different

**Author's Note:**

> For the River/Doctor fluffathon on tumblr. Prompt was "the song First Day of My Life, by Bright Eyes. The writer is free to do whatever they want, from just using it as a source of inspiration to something close to a retelling. They’re completely free (provided they listen to it at least once)!"

The rain trickles down the window pane of River’s apartment, pounding against the roof in a constant, soothing white noise that suffuses his soul with an unusual feeling of calm. He curls his toes against the carpet, enjoying the feeling of the warm socks River had loaned him. There’s a mug of earl grey by his side, tendrils of steam curling into the air in that wonderfully homey way, the smell soft and just slightly sweet. He probably should’ve turned on the lights, he thinks, but he couldn’t stand to move his wife, and so as the sky outside darkened and the mid-afternoon rain turned to an evening storm, he let the house go dark with it.

River curls into his side further, one of her small hands fisted into his shirt, the other resting on his leg. Her legs are tucked beneath her, her cheek pressed to his chest, and he can already see a bit of a crease imprinted on her skin from his suspenders. River Song: bespoke psychopath, destroyer of worlds, saver of millions, most wanted criminal in the universe, soaked in blood and brilliance, and here she was, curled into his side in a sweatshirt and her pants like a contented kitten.

Domesticity was a terrifying thing to him, which was why he and River got on so wonderfully, because she was never boring a day in her life. She was even more likely than he to summon trouble from even the most benign situation; the Doctor had companions hurrying to catch up to him, and he had River, always a mile ahead. Despite that, there was an expectedly large part of his hearts that was very content indeed to spend a day in his wife’s apartment, with her curled against his side, listening to the rain. He leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead, and she stirred with a smile.

“Someone’s getting sentimental in their old age,” she murmured, her voice raspy with sleep, and he grinned at the sound. When she sat up, the cold she left behind chilled him to the bone.

“Nah, you had a spot,” he said, watching her affectionately as she stretched her arms over her head and then stood. “I was just giving your head a good polish. And yes I hear the double entendre, dear, so keep it to yourself.”

She smiles. “Wasn’t going to say a word, but now that you’ve mentioned it —”

The Doctor stands quickly, stopping her words with a brief kiss before spinning away into the kitchen. Before she even reaches him she hears cabinets slamming and utensils shaking.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Let’s make dinner.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head, “what?”

“You and me,” he says, holding a bowl in front of him and shifting it awkwardly between his palms as he looks at her with no small measure of anxiousness, “let’s cook dinner.”

“You want to cook dinner,” she repeats, staring at him blankly. He nods. “I must be still asleep. Sweetie, don’t you want to go somewhere for dinner? Paris? The moon? A trench in the middle of a major war?”

He shakes his head. He can’t explain it to her — he’s not sure he could find the words even if he tried, but he wants to hold on for this, if only for a little bit. He wants to cling to the fuzzy socks and the steaming tea and the weight of her sleeping body against his, to love her moment to moment instead of planet to planet or decade to decade; he wants to wake up and make her tea and play footsies with her during lunch and cook a nice meal for dinner and settle down with a good book and fall asleep tucked beneath the covers with her hand in his and soft words to accompany the trickle of rain outside. He knows it’s a temporary impulse, knows it as surely as he knows the beating of his own hearts, but for the moment he wants it with a desperation he can’t put to words.

River steps toward him, her hair mussed and her eyes still foggy with sleep. She reaches a hand up to place gently against the side of his face, leans forward, and kisses him. Her hands reach between them to remove the bowl from his grasp and place it on the counter as she twines her arms over his neck, pressing her body gently to his. He rests his palms against her cheeks, stroking her soft skin with the pads of his thumbs, losing himself in the soft press of her lips; she never opens her mouth to him, and even holds back slightly when he tries to pull her toward him, but there’s a lot of love in that kiss.

He knows she couldn’t stand to stay in one place, either. He knows that if he asked River to settle down in a house with a white picket fence and a dog she probably wouldn’t even say yes; he knows that because she’s exactly like him, right down to her need for trouble and her insatiable wanderlust. They’d never be happy in the life he imagines in this moment, but sometimes he likes to pretend.

She hums happily as she pulls away, her eyes gleaming, and he can see in her expression all of the explanations he couldn’t find it in himself to give.

“Let’s order pizza instead,” she says with a smile, bopping him on the nose. When he starts to protest, she cuts him off with: “baby steps, my love. Besides, I haven’t got any food.”

***

The light from the street lamps pour into River’s bedroom, and he watches the reflection of the rain dance across the comforter, running a hand up and down River’s bare side. It’s almost uncomfortably warm beneath the blanket, but he’s so totally intoxicated by the feeling of her skin pressed up against his that he can’t even think to do a thing about it.

“We could do this, you know,” he says, even though he knows they couldn’t.

“Do what?” River asks, turning over so that she’s practically on top of him and giving a little wiggle that makes him go a bit cross-eyed, though he quickly grips her hips to stop her.

“Live in a house,” he says, perhaps a little too quickly to bely his uneasiness. “Order pizzas. Take naps. Read newspapers. Do… couple things.”

She laughs at him, and he tries very hard not to pout. Instead, he traces one hand up and down her spine.

“You would be miserable.”

“I would not!”

“You would too, my love,” River says, kissing his chin. “It’s all very nice now, I know you think so. Slow and simple. But living with someone full time gets quite difficult, and you’ve never had to try that. It’s a novelty, sweetie, but it will soon grow old.”

“It won’t,” he says, but he knows by her smile she doesn’t believe him. She kisses him with the same slow, smoldering passion she had earlier in the kitchen, but now there’s nothing between them, and he has to try very hard not to get distracted. “I would do anything with you.”

“Someone’s smitten,” she says with a smile, sliding down him slightly and kissing his throat, then clavicles, then a slow path down his sternum. He brushes a hand through her hair.

“We should try it.”

“You’ll hate it.”

“I won’t!”

“Fine, then. I’ll hate it.”

“River!”

She laughs against the skin of his stomach, but he stops her, placing his hand beneath her chin and pulling her up so that they’re face to face, every line of their bodies pressing against one another.

“River,” he repeats, “I want to do this. I want to try this. I want to give you everything you deserve. I took so much from you, after all.”

She huffs a sigh, blowing a ringlet out of her face, and her smile is patient. “We can try if you’d like. But I just want you to remember that this is your idea, and I don’t want anything but you.”

“You have me. Always and completely.”

“Good. Now. Sweetie?”

“Yes?”

“Do shut up.”

She slips back down his body beneath the comforter and they don’t speak for a while.

***

Their arrangement lasts approximately a month. They go grocery shopping — with great difficulty — and cook meals. They drink tea and read books, and the Doctor occasionally acts as a guest lecturer at her University. He writes a few dozen papers (he’s never had so much free time, after all) and once or twice he even indulges her and goes to her dreaded archaeology things. He meets her friends for drinks and once even dinner (although that was a disaster), and at night he curls up with her in her bed —their bed — and wakes up the next day in the very same place, in a very linear time.

He tries to hide how restless he’s getting. But he can’t deny it. Staying in one place for so long, even with River, feels a bit like being shackled to the ground. He feels time passing so terribly slowly all around him and it makes his hearts feel out of time; he wonders how River ever stands it.

Of course, his wife is always a step ahead of him.

One evening, she doesn’t return home from work as planned. He worries a bit, paces quite a lot, and packages the dinner he prepared in tupperware (which makes him feel even more restless, because honestly, tupperware!) before he notices the psychic paper he’d nearly forgotten on her dresser lighting up a bit. Opening it, the first sheet reads: I never was one to settle, sweetie. Come and get me. x

Happily ever after isn’t, and never has been, time-space specific, so he runs after her, and that’s that.


End file.
